Several prime years drinking in dark suits, pillaging like the Mongol hordes, hard living down in Soho with a circle of friends, licking the crisp hilt of magic in London and New Orleans. Best days. Ties or no ties in boots or shoes we are the Fallen Heroes and what comes with us is a swinging crockpot of salvation lest good times nearly missed you.

There is a big man who blows his lungs out to the weaving motion of his trumpet. A bass player who tortures the strings... they are speaking to the best part of you, the toughest... the freest... the deafening climax of the moment. The rhythm grips you and shakes you, you bounce in your seat, faster and faster in a hellish round.... J.P. Satre